


Into the Desert

by Laetitia_Laetitii



Series: Aileen Westbrook [7]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Adventure, Desert Treasure, Gen, World Guardian - Freeform, questfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7389607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetitia_Laetitii/pseuds/Laetitia_Laetitii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of “Bricks” and “The Stone Tablet”, Aileen Westbrook and Asgarnia Smith set out treasure-hunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> This is a middle part, and like most middle parts it’s one big structural fault.
> 
> I still don’t have a fixed scale. Distances are exactly as long as I decide to make them, regardless of whether it matches the proportions of the game map or not.

 

            A week after I had first met Asgarnia, we walked together through the gates at Shantay Pass and into the great Kharidian Desert. I stepped out of the shadow of the archway, and found myself staring into an endless, shining nothingness; a wasteland of dunes spreading out under an immense azure sky. When the wind hit my face, I understood for the first time that the cliffs rising behind us were the only thing protecting Al-Kharid from being buried under the wandering sands forever.

            Outside the gate a camel caravan, some thirty animals and their owners, was getting ready to depart. In the absence of roads, all the major trade in the desert — grain to Pollnivneach and Sophanem, ores and salt to Al-Kharid — is done by ships on the Salve and the Elid. Small-time merchants, however,  often band together in groups, and travel from village to fur-flung village on camelback. They supply small, scattered communities with metal products and textiles, while picking up anything from ambergris to gemstones to sell in the cities. The risks are huge, but so can be the profits. This was one such caravan. We would be joining them for the first leg of our voyage.

            The place we were going to was an oasis near the western coast of the peninsula. Currently, it served as a winter camp for the Bedapins, a tribe of nomadic Menaphites, and Asgarnia wanted to talk to them. To start with, he wanted to learn what they knew about Jaldraocht. Furthermore, he sought to hire a guide for the rest of the journey. Our destination lay off every beaten path, and to get there we’d need someone who knew not only the way, but how to survive on it.

            Presently, we were approached by the man we had paid for passage. He was a big, pockmarked Pollnivnean who peddled pots and pans off the backs of five overburdened camels. First, he added our luggage — tents, food and tools — to the loads of two animals, then he helped us on two others, and finally he plumped his own considerable bulk on the last one, under the shade of a fringed canopy. And as the sun continued its ascent towards the zenith, the caravan set out for the west.

            The journey took us ten days to make. We would start out at dawn, dismantling our tents and decamping in the freezing cold. By midday the sun would force us to halt and we’d rest for the hottest hours, eating a little and drinking aplenty. Often the heat would make me light-headed, and I remember spending those stops lying down and watching the rippling horizon through half-closed eyelids. When the worst of it was over, we’d continue as long as we could see, and pitch our tents as the stars came out.

            We never went deep into the desert during that time. Our route followed the coastline, sometimes close enough to glimpse the shimmer of the sea between two faraway dunes. It was, nevertheless, sufficient to get an idea of the place, its size and its conditions. I got to know the heat and the cold, the blinding power of the sun and the scarcity of water. The ubiquitous dust stuck to every uncovered inch of our skins, and travelled into clothes and bedclothes. I sneezed dust and spat it, and in the morning I’d blink it from my eyes.

            From time to time, someone would mention bandits, usually in connection with the disappearances of people the traders had known. Robbers were more common south of the Kharidian Range, I was told, but sometimes they’d come up to intercept a major caravan up north. We were lucky, and never came across a single soul.

            The days passed in supreme monotony. The landscape of dunes and eroded rock never varied, nor did the weather. Apart from the shared meals, Asgarnia and I kept to ourselves and rarely spent time with the others. If anyone asked, we were scouting for ruins for the Archaeological Institute at Varrock, which wasn’t entirely untrue. We didn’t mention Jaldraocht.

            Late in the afternoon of the tenth day, we finally came to the oasis. It lay sheltered in a dip between the dunes; a collection of placid, crystal-clear springs fringed with lush, intense greenery. Acacias reached their curling branches over the water, and I could see little birds flying between them. A breeze played in the leaves of the high palm trees, bringing with it the infinitely soft scent of something short-lived in flower. All around, like a range of small, sun-bleached mountains, stood the tents of the Bedapins.

            As soon as the settlement had come to view, the caravan leader called a halt. There was some negotiation among the traders — none of which I understood — until one of them dismounted and proceeded towards the springs on foot. I heard him cry out a greeting, and from a nearby tent a man emerged, calling out in response. Asgarnia, who was riding in front of me, turned to look over his shoulder.

            “He’s asking if we can approach,” he explained. I speak a bit of Kharidian, and can understand some written Menaphite dialects based on that, but the spoken varieties are beyond me.

            “Formality or real question?” I asked.

            “More a formality,” he replied, shading his eyes as we watched the two men talk. “A matter of etiquette. And safety.”

            After a few minutes of animated conversation our leader came back, and the Bedapin shouted something at us.

            “It’s cleared,” Asgarnia said, satisfied. “He says we can come. The man called out a few more exclamations. “We can drink where they drink and our animals can drink where their animals drink.” The way he said it made it sound like a set phrase.

            So we road into the oasis, and as we did, more people came out to see us. Men and women in flowing white robes, small children tended to by bigger ones. They watched us with some curiosity as we were lead to the spot allotted to us, and while we began to unpack the tents, a few of them gathered around. I saw two women standing nearby, chatting animatedly and gesturing at the animals. Then one of them hollered a question at a merchant who was divesting his beast of burden of its load.

            “She wants to know what he’s got for sale,” Asgarnia translated, as we sorted out the lines. Apparently dissatisfied with the man’s response, she asked something else.

            “She wants to know if anyone has printed fabrics.” The women craned their necks in the direction of the textile-vendors for a while, seemed to reach some kind of an agreement and walked off.

            “They’ll wait until tomorrow,” Asgarnia said. Tonight we get to rest.”

            As soon as our tents were pitched, another man came along to tell us where to take water. I followed the merchants to a crystalline pool, and squatted down on the bank to fill our waterskins. We took turns washing inside the tent, both of us using an indecent amount of water in the process. Clothes —we had both invested in light wool robes —were easy to keep fresh by airing, but for all my attempts to scrub with sand and oil, I had never felt so filthy in my life.

            Clean and in clean clothes once more, I was going through our provisions for dinner ingredients when Asgarnia suddenly re-entered.

            “Come along,” he said. “I think we’ve got something.” I followed him out and through the camp, until we came to a large tent pitched between two date palms. It was already getting dark, and the lamp burning inside made the cloth walls glow golden, creating an impression of a huge, flattened paper lantern. At the entrance a young man greeted us, and after a few words he ushered us in. He was our host’s son. I would later learn that Asgarnia had fallen into talking with him, and had been quick —quite impolitely quick, to bring up the fact that he was after a guide. When he had named our destination the young man had fallen silent, and then insisted that we talk to his father, Al Shabim, the tribe’s leader.

            The inside of this man’s tent was as comfortable and well-decorated as ours was austere. Rugs covered the floor and sitting-pillows lined the perimeter. From the support beams hung a bronze oil-lamp, and below it stood a small, three-legged table. Beyond the table, on a pile of cushions, sat a white-robed man of indeterminate age inspecting a long scroll that looked like a list. He looked up as we entered, and —I could understand as much —bade us to sit down. Asgarnia spoke some of the Bedapin dialect, but not very much, while our host spoke some Common, but not very well, and finally they settled on Kharidian, putting themselves at equal disadvantage.

            “I hear you are looking for a guide, Mr Smith,” Al said. “You said you are headed for the southern desert.”

            “That is right,” Asgarnia answered. “For a journey of up to three months.”

            “You have a very specific place in mind,” our host said. His expression was blank, but I could see he was getting at something. “And if you were going anywhere else, I would be glad to help. As things are, I urge you to reconsider going.”

            “And why is that?” Asgarnia said. As we spoke, the son entered carrying a tray laid with small, steaming glasses.

            “The same reason why you can’t go south through Menaphos Pass,” he said, placing the tray on the table. “The Bandits.”

            “You are talking about a particular group of bandits?” Asgarnia asked, as we accepted the proffered drinks.

            “Not a group,” Al said. “A tribe. They live off robbery. They raid caravans. They intercept grain ships on the Elid. And they attack our flocks. They’re partly nomadic, but they have a permanent settlement south of here, near the Pass. Thanks to their presence, nearly all trade now goes through Pollnivneach. The last caravan that tried to short-cut were lucky to escape with their lives.”

            “In that case,” Asgarnia said tentatively, “would it not be a matter of us simply taking the longer route?”

            “No,” Al replied. “The journey itself is not the problem, the destination is. You see,” he continued, taking a sip of his tea, “Jaldraocht is sacred to the Bandits, and they guard it jealously.”

          “No-one ever mentioned the place having religious significance,” Asgarnia interjected, sounding more irritated than surprised.

          “That is because unless you’ve dealt with any Bandits, which I doubt, you’ve never met anyone to whom it has such meaning,” the Bedapin leader said patiently. “ You see, the Bandits are not Menaphites. Nor are they Kharidians. It is said they came from the north at the end of the God Wars, though no-one knows where from. Their language bears no semblance to ours, and but for their robbing, they insulate themselves from everyone else. What’s more, they worship an obscure deity unconnected to our Pantheon. And for a reason no outsider has ever learned, this worship involves Jaldraocht.”

            “I thought Jaldraocht predated the War,” I said.

            “It does,” Al said, turning to look at me, “It was built thousands of years before the Bandits ever came here. But whatever significance the pyramid has to them, they guard it fiercely. Should they learn of your presence there, your lives would not be worth the dust on your shoes.” While he was speaking, Al had reached into his robes to pull out something. Now he laid the object on the table between us, letting lamplight glint on the evil blade. “Years ago, I retrieved this from the body of a friend,” he said. “His only crime, as far as I could tell, was riding too close to their camp. What they did to him was unspeakable, but what they’d do to desecrators would be worse.”

          It was a dagger. It had a slightly curved blade with a single, vicious barb on the underside, and a grip encased in dark wood. Inlaid in the wood, clearly visible for all its wear, was a familiar symbol consisting of a cross and a circle. Al left it there, and for the rest of the conversation it seemed to stare at me.

            When he continued, he was addressing Asgarnia again. “That is why Jaldraocht has never been studied. Or robbed.” There was nothing pointed about the way he said this, but I think he understood very well what kind of a man he was dealing with.

            “And if we simply needed a guide to get us to Pollnivneach?” Asgarnia asked.

            “I’d be happy to help,” Al said. “I will ask around, and most likely I will find someone. What you must also understand is that should one of our men be willing to take you to Jaldraocht I can’t prevent him, or you. I am merely telling you to not go all that way just to be murdered.”

            “But we are free to hire a guide, if we find someone willing?” Asgarnia said.

            “You are free to go to your death, if you insist,” the Bedapin leader replied. “And any man who takes up your offer is free to go to his death as well.”

            His son picked up the tray, now full of empty glasses, and I sensed that our visit was over. We got up, and after rather curt goodnights, we left.

    Night had fallen, and all around us I could see fires in the dark, and figures sitting around them. The sound of their laughter mixed with the chirping of the crickets and the myriad, unseen birds singing up in the acacias. The son had seen us out, and before we headed home, I turned to him.

            “Please,” I said, “About the dagger you’re father showed us. What was the symbol on it?”

          “On the handle?” He asked, unsurprised. “It’s the mark of the Bandit god. They decorate all their weapons with it.” I thanked him.

    Back at the tent, we had a simple dinner of beans I had left to stew in the ashes. I ladled out the portions, and as we sat down to eat, I decided to try and get Asgarnia to talk.

            “So,” I started. “These people are probably the last worshippers of Zaros alive.” When that got no response, I went on. “Their city by the Salve is wiped out, they flee here, and take to revering an ancient pyramid. What do you make of that?”

            “I don’t,” Asgarnia said. “You’re the archaeologist.”

    “The man you got it from, then, was he one of these bandits?” We never mentioned the tablet aloud, and Asgarnia had forbidden me from ever speaking of it to anyone.

            “No, he answered. “He was a thug, but a Menaphite one. But he did tell me where it came from.” I recalled that it had been the same, unnamed man, who had first suggested to him that the building mentioned in the tablet was Jaldraocht.

            “Did he ever say anything about it being holy?” I asked.

            “No.” And that was that. Asgarnia was deep in thought, and after we finished our meal I left him so.

            I gathered the washing-up, and headed out. The place where we had been told to dump dirty water and bury garbage was some way away, and I walked there alone through the dark. It was cold already, and a bitter wind tore at my robes as I crouched down to scrub the bowls with sand. When I was satisfied they felt clean —it was impossible to see —I got up and walked back, hugging the vessels to my chest. On the crest of a dune I stopped, and turned to face the south. Staring into the impenetrable night, I tried to picture Jaldraocht, guarded by the worshipers of a forgotten god. The idea was too wild to comprehend, and for a moment I felt that it all had indescribable significance, not historical, but cosmic.

            Then I turned around and went home, and by the time my head hit the mat I was asleep.

 

 


End file.
